What does the lion do? Why does Tina sleep? Why does an ostrich pee? Step on a tile and the floor explains it. Whoever knows it all gets into the ball pit.
Hit the gas too early and you still go. Just without a boost.
Press the gas only at one, or at “set”, and then hold it. The start boost pushes you over the line, and “Hopp!” sticks to the screen. Press at three and you won’t be punished. You just won’t be rewarded, which is a punishment too.
Go sideways to get straight ahead faster.
In a corner, press and hold the space bar: your ride hops, slides and charges up. Let go and it shoves you forward with flames, and the longer you drifted, the more. It only works from half speed up, and never while you’re spinning.
What goes up comes down. Here, even faster.
There are ramps on the road. Drive over one, fly a bit, and if you land, you get a boost. You simply fly over a puddle of egg yolk. Over everything else, sadly not.
A bridge connects two banks. This one also connects two speeds.
Seven bridges lie between Cape Town and Durban, from the Berg River to the uMngeni, and all of them are single-lane. Drive onto one and you get a boost, and everyone shouts “Bridge!”. Line up beforehand: side by side you won’t fit.
The journey is the destination, especially when the destination is far away.
All five in one ride, no opponents and no clock. You may steer, but you don’t have to. Tina sleeps on Valerio’s shoulder, Jonas reads the map, Steve photographs the sleeper, and Valerio writes it all down. With your own head, there are six of you.
Alone you’re faster. Five of you arrive louder.
Press “With Friends” and send the link. Whoever opens it peels a head off the sheet, and the sticker flies onto their kart at the start line. Whoever comes too late finds only the glue mark, watches, and drives next time. The host presses Go. There’s no pause: the race doesn’t stop for one person. Whoever’s gone is driven by Nobody until they’re back.
One screen, four lanes. Peek at someone else’s and you end up in the grass.
Connect the laptop to the TV and press “On the TV”: the laptop goes full screen, and a QR code appears on the sheet. Scan it with your phone, peel off a head there and put it on one of the four seats at the line. At “Go!” the picture splits open, and everyone drives in their own lane, side by side like the seats. The phone is the steering wheel. Here you can pause; you’re all in the same room, after all.
Photographs everything. Preferably you.
Steve has a big SLR with him and holds it up to his face every few seconds: click, flash. He photographs whoever is behind him, and that’s usually you. If he overtakes you, you get a photo of yourself instead of a thumbs-up. Collecting evidence, he calls it.
Sleeps. Drives anyway.
Tina wears a sleep mask and nods off as soon as nothing’s happening: awake, dozing, asleep, Z. She’s woken by hits, jumps, boosts, anyone overtaking her, and the countdown. Only coffee wakes her up properly, and then the cup trembles in her hand. Afterwards she gets tired again all the faster, and the closer to Durban, the sooner.
Writes while driving. Don’t try this at home.
On every straight, the notebook lies on the handlebars: one hand writes, one steers. When an idea strikes, he tears out the page and it flutters back, into your face. In the corners he puts both hands on the wheel. Mostly. On Piggyback he carries you and runs.
Plans the trip while he’s on it.
Jonas drinks tea, with the bag in, otherwise you’d take it for coffee. He also holds the road map with the real route, his own location marked on it. Before a sharp bend he points the way, and at every new stage he lifts the map. It flaps in the wind, sometimes it’s upside down. He gets there anyway.
A plush sloth with a doctorate. That’s all you need to know.
The Doctor has no quirk. That is his quirk. He hangs in his ride the way sloths hang, with long arms and lots of patience, and when he overtakes, he honks “Möp, möp, möp!”. Underestimate him and you’ll be overtaken by a sloth. That happens more often than you’d think.
With your own head. You brought it along anyway.
In the driver choice, tap “You” and give the game a photo. It cuts out your head and puts it on a borrowed body, right in the browser: Tina lends you her kimono, Steve or Jonas their clothes, depending on how you look. Whoever lends you their body stays at home. Not in Feelgood: there everyone comes along, six of you. And from then on you stand behind the finish line and cheer, in the same body.
Valerio carries you. You carry the responsibility.
Valerio takes you on his back and runs, step by step, uphill and downhill, without complaining. He can do a bit of everything and nothing too much. If you can’t make up your mind, hop on.
Steers as sharp as a punchline.
Kicked along in rhythm, it steers the sharpest and drifts the fastest, and downhill it rolls away. Off the road, though, the fun’s over: grass slows it more than any other, and if you get hit, you’re off it for longer.
A golden e-walker with a horse’s head. Yes, really.
Ziehgor pulls away instantly, twice as hard as Piggyback, and gallops over any meadow as if it were asphalt. He hardly ever gets knocked over and shakes off a hit in half the time. He just isn’t fast. Hit him and you hear him neigh, and “Hüü!” is his word for go.
Slow to get going. Like every Poetry Slam.
A bike with a trailer. It takes a while to get rolling, but then it rolls the fastest of all. The trailer has room for a second item, which moves up as soon as you’ve thrown the first. In corners the trailer swings out, and at the line the bell rings.
Comfy is a speed too.
A driving sofa with fringes, a lace doily and a rainbow umbrella. It steers at a leisurely pace and pushes aside anyone who gets too close. In the cushions you drink in peace: a coffee lasts twice as long here. Off the road it does surprisingly well. Sofas are used to rough terrain, from the living room.
A ball pit on wheels. Fall in and you won’t want to get out.
It bounces off hits: it spins less than half as long as Piggyback and only loses a few balls. It steers nimbly and likes to drift. In corners it sloshes outward, and off the road it sinks in like, well, a ball pit.
Built in 1982. You drive on the roof; inside is already full.
Carl is a motorhome with the plate CA-RL 82H and the heaviest in the field. He’s hard to get moving and steers like a living room, but whoever gets in his way has to move aside. He sways on his soft springs, and once he’s rolling, he’s rolling.
Weighs almost nothing. You notice at the first bump, at the latest.
A rainbow kick scooter: yellow deck, blue handlebar, magenta grips, and ribbons fluttering at the ends. It’s pushed along in short kicks, pulls away nimbly and steers almost as sharply as the longboard. Over every ramp the deck spins once around the bar, a tailwhip, and the bell rings. In return it’s the lightest in the field: whoever bumps you pushes you away, and in the grass the little wheels get stuck.
Instead of bananas. Cape Town has penguins, ask Boulders Beach.
Thrown forward, it slides down the road on its belly and bounces off the edges until it knocks someone over. With down arrow you drop it behind you, and there it stands, waiting for the next one. Whoever gets it spins.
He doesn’t take it personally. The one ahead of you does.
The lion sets off and picks up the trail of whoever is right in front of you. He changes lanes with them until he gets them. Dodging is hard; concrete helps. Whoever gets hit shouts “Ow ow ow owww”.
Africa’s roads have potholes. Now you have one to go.
You drop it behind you, always onto the road, even if you’re driving beside it. Whoever drives in bumps and spins, each exactly once. The hole stays until everyone is past it. Afterwards, Tina mourns her white T-shirt.
A shout that makes you faster. Works in life too, a little.
Not a throw, a push: short and strong, forward, with flames. Those at the back get it most, so they can catch up. By the way, if you do nothing for a long time, you also get a “Hopp!”, but only to look at.
Not thrown. Drunk.
Five seconds more top speed and acceleration, as long as the cup at top left isn’t empty yet. A second one tops it up, a hit spills half. On the sofa it lasts twice as long, and it wakes Tina up properly.
The biggest egg in the world. Times two.
Two in the nest, and you lob them forward, one after the other. Whoever gets hit spins, and whatever misses becomes a puddle of egg yolk. Drive through it and you slip. Fly over it and you don’t. Thrown backwards, it’s a puddle right away.
He runs past, stands at the side and pees. He doesn’t need more of a plan.
The ostrich overtakes whoever is in front of you, stands at the roadside opposite and waits. When they come past, the stream hits them: they swerve, and yellow drops run down their screen. On top sits Andy in overalls, hands in his pockets. He answers no questions.
The lighting guy. He turns it off.
Achim is the lighting technician from the Spasskanone. Draw him and you hear “Lights out …”, then “… spotlight on!”: disco ball, LEDs, fog machine, nine seconds of party. You see clearly, everyone else drives in fog. He only comes about one time in fifty, but in any position.
A money tree in a concrete pot with a red donkey. Invulnerable, it’s concrete.
Draw him and for seven seconds you become Louis: a pot on wheels that everything bounces off, lions, penguins, eggs, stream. First he spins once around himself, at the end he blinks, then poof, and you’re you again. Ram him and you’re ramming concrete.
“No gnus is good gnus!”
A whole herd crosses the road, right in front of whoever is ahead of you. One gnu alone wouldn’t be enough, so they come in troops. Find a gap and you get through; drive straight on and you get trampled. They jump over your own kart, they know you, after all.
Reading makes you stop and think. Mostly stop.
You only get it when you’re near the back. Valerio’s little book flies over the whole field to whoever is in front, lands at the roadside ahead of them and flips open. Out run one-liners, word by word on their own legs, across the road. Drive into one and you stand and read until the line is over. Only those who hit the gap between two lines get through. Or Louis Beton.
If you’ve read this far, you can get in. If you haven’t, you can too. Stir it around or tap in. Find someone from the game and you land on their profile. And watch out: Valerio throws.